Ancient Philosophy After Aristotle

Stoicism

Stoicism, although contemporary to Epicureanism in its emergence, boasts a more prolonged history and a less consistent doctrine. The teachings of its founder, Zeno, dating back to the early third century BCE, bear little resemblance to those of Marcus Aurelius, who wrote in the latter half of the second century CE. Zeno was a materialist whose doctrines primarily blended Cynic and Heraclitean ideas; however, over time, influenced by Platonism, the Stoics gradually distanced themselves from materialism, leaving behind only faint traces of its former impact. Their ethics, conversely, changed very little, as it was deemed the most significant aspect by most Stoics. Yet even in this regard, there was a shift in emphasis. As time progressed, discussions about other aspects of Stoicism diminished, leading to an increasingly exclusive focus on ethics and those theological elements most closely related to ethics. The teachings of earlier Stoics are somewhat obscured by the fact that only fragments of their works have survived. It is primarily the writings of Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius from the first and second centuries CE that have come down to us as complete texts.

Stoicism is less "Greek" than any of the philosophical schools we have considered thus far. The early Stoics were predominantly Syrians, while the later ones were largely Romans. Tarn, in his work Hellenistic Culture, suggests the possibility of Chaldean influences on Stoicism. Iberweg rightly observes that as the Greeks "Hellenized" the barbarian world, they discarded what they deemed unnecessary. In contrast to earlier, purely Greek philosophical teachings, Stoicism is emotionally narrow and, in some respects, fanatical; yet it also contained religious elements that the world required and which the Greeks could not provide. In particular, it appealed to rulers. “Almost all the heirs of Alexander, we might say, all the major kings for generations, declared themselves followers of Zeno—calling themselves Stoics,” says Professor Gilbert Murray.

Zeno was a Phoenician, born in Citium on Cyprus in the latter half of the fourth century BCE. It seems likely that the family to which he belonged was engaged in trade, and that business interests initially brought him to Athens. However, during his time there, he developed a desire to study philosophy. The views of the Cynics resonated with him more than the teachings of any other school, though in certain respects he was an eclectic thinker. Followers of Plato accused him of plagiarizing ideas from the Academy. Throughout the history of Stoicism, Socrates was the chief deity of the Stoics; his behavior during his trial, his refusal to flee, his calmness in the face of death, and his assertion that injustice harms the perpetrator more than the victim—these all aligned perfectly with Stoic teachings. Similarly, his indifference to heat and cold, his simplicity regarding food and clothing, and his complete disregard for various comforts left a profound impression. Yet the Stoics never accepted Plato’s doctrine of ideas, and most rejected his arguments regarding immortality. Only later Stoics agreed with him that the soul is immaterial; early Stoics shared Heraclitus's view that the soul is composed of material fire. A similar doctrine can be found in Epicurus and Marcus Aurelius, although in their case, fire should not literally be considered one of the four elements that make up the physical world.

Zeno abhorred metaphysical subtleties. He believed that virtue held immense importance, and he regarded physics and metaphysics only insofar as they contributed to virtue. He endeavored to combat the metaphysical tendencies of his time using common sense, which in Greece meant materialism. He was irritated by doubts regarding the reliability of the senses, and he went to extremes in promoting opposing ideas.

"Zeno began with an assertion of the existence of a real world. 'What do you mean by saying "real?"' asked the skeptic. 'I mean that it is solid and material. I mean that this table is solid matter.' 'And God,' asked the Skeptic, 'what of the Soul?' 'Absolutely solid. More solid than anything, than the table.' 'And virtue, or justice, or the triple rule—are they also solid matter?' 'Of course,' said Zeno, 'entirely solid.'"

Clearly, in this point, Zeno, like many others, fell into his own metaphysics in his zeal against metaphysics.

The fundamental doctrines to which the Stoic school remained faithful pertain to cosmic determinism and human freedom. Zeno believed that chance does not exist and that the course of natural processes is strictly determined by natural laws. Initially, only fire existed; gradually, other elements—air, water, earth—emerged. But sooner or later, a cosmic conflagration will occur, and everything will once again become fire. According to the majority of Stoics, this is not a final death akin to the end of the world in Christian doctrine, but merely the conclusion of a cycle; the entire process will repeat infinitely. Everything that happens has happened before and will happen again—not just once, but countless times.

As we have thus far presented it, this doctrine may seem bleak and, in no way, more consoling than ordinary materialism—such as the materialism of Democritus. Yet this is only one aspect of it. The development of nature, according to Stoicism, like that of eighteenth-century theology, is predetermined by a Lawgiver who is also a benevolent Providence. Everything, right down to the minutest details, is planned to achieve certain ends through natural means. These ends, except when they pertain to gods and demons, must be found in human life. Everything has a purpose connected to human beings. Some animals are suited for food, others for testing courage; even bedbugs are useful, as they help us wake up in the morning and not lie too long in bed. Sometimes the supreme authority is referred to as God, and at other times as Zeus. Seneca distinguished this Zeus from the object of popular belief, which was equally real but subordinate.

God is not separate from the world; He is the soul of the world, and within each of us resides a spark of the Divine Fire. All things are parts of a unified system called Nature. Individual life is good when it is in harmony with Nature. In a certain sense, every life is in harmony with Nature, as it is what the laws of Nature have made it to be; but in another sense, human life is in harmony with Nature only when the individual's will is directed toward goals that are also the goals of Nature. Virtue is the will in accordance with Nature. Wicked people, although they involuntarily obey the laws of God, do so begrudgingly; Cleanthes compares them to a dog tied to a cart and forced to go where the cart goes.

In the life of the individual, virtue is the only good; health, happiness, wealth, and similar things are disregarded. Since virtue resides in the will, all that is truly good or bad in a person's life depends solely on them. They may become impoverished, but what of it? They can still be virtuous. A tyrant may imprison them, but they can still persist in living in harmony with Nature. They may be sentenced to death, but it is within their will to die nobly, like Socrates. Others may have power only over the external; virtue, which alone is the true good, completely depends on the individual. Therefore, every person possesses perfect freedom, provided they free themselves from worldly desires. Such desires are only seen as prevailing through false judgment; the sage, whose judgments are true, is the master of their fate in all that they value, since no external force can deprive them of virtue.

This doctrine presents evident logical difficulties. If virtue truly is the only good, then benevolent Providence must be concerned solely with promoting virtue; however, the laws of Nature have produced an abundance of sinners. If virtue is the only good, there can be no arguments against cruelty and injustice, for, as the Stoics tirelessly reiterate, cruelty and injustice offer the suffering individual the best opportunity to practice virtue. If the world is entirely determined, the laws of Nature themselves will decide whether I am virtuous or not. If I am immoral, Nature compels me to be so, and the freedom that is supposedly granted by virtue becomes impossible for me.

The modern mind finds it difficult to embrace a virtuous life if it yields no tangible good. We admire a medical worker who risks their life during a plague epidemic because we view disease as an evil and hope to reduce its frequency. But if disease is not an evil, the medical worker might well remain at home with complete peace of mind. For the Stoic, virtue is an end in itself, not a means to an end that brings about good. But if we look forward, what is the ultimate outcome? The destruction of the entire existing world by fire, followed by the repetition of the entire process. Can anything be more utterly pointless? Progress may occasionally occur, for a time—but ultimately, it will merely be repetition. When we encounter something unbearable, we hope that such things will not occur in due time; but the Stoic assures us that everything happening now will happen again and again. One might think that Providence, which sees everything as a whole, must ultimately tire to despair.

In the Stoic conception of virtue, there exists a certain indifference. All passions are condemned, not merely the negative ones. The sage does not know compassion: when his wife or children die, he believes this event does not obstruct his own virtue and therefore does not suffer deeply. Friendship, so highly valued by Epicurus, is commendable, but it should not be such that the misfortunes of your friend could disturb your sacred tranquility. As for public life, participation in it may be your duty, as it offers an opportunity to enact justice and demonstrate strength of spirit; however, you should not be driven by the desire to benefit humankind, for the acts of kindness you might offer—such as peace or a more equitable distribution of food—are not true acts of beneficence, and, in any case, nothing matters to you except your own virtue. The Stoic is virtuous not to do good, but does good in order to be virtuous. It does not occur to him to love his neighbor as himself; love, except in its external sense, is absent from his concept of virtue.

When I speak of this, I consider love as an emotion rather than a principle. The Stoics preached universal love as a principle. This principle can be found in Seneca and his followers, and it was likely borrowed from the early Stoics. The logic of this school led to doctrines softened by the humanity of their adherents, who were much better individuals than they would have been had they remained consistent. Kant, who resembles them, asserts that you must be kind to your brother not because you love him, but because the laws of morality encompass kindness; however, I doubt whether his private life was in accord with this preaching.

Setting aside these generalities, let us turn to the history of Stoicism.

From the works of Zeno, only a few fragments remain. From these, it is evident that he defined God as the fiery reason of the world; he stated that God is a corporeal substance and that the entire world, the entire universe, forms the substance of God. Tertullian remarks that, according to Zeno, God fills the entire material world as honey fills a beehive. According to Diogenes Laërtius, Zeno asserted that the Universal Law, which is the True Reason filling all, is the same as Zeus, the Supreme Head of the administration of the Universe: God, Mind, Fate, Zeus—one and the same. Fate is the power that moves matter; "Providence" and "Nature" are merely other names for it. Zeno did not believe that temples were needed for the gods: "There will be no need to build temples, as a temple should not contain valuable things or anything holy. Nothing created by the hands of builders or mechanics can be very valuable or sacred." It seems that, like later Stoics, he believed in astrology and divination. Cicero notes that Zeno attributed divine power to the stars. Diogenes Laërtius states that "the Stoics consider all kinds of predictions to be sound. They say that if there is such a thing as Providence, then there must also be predictions. Citing a series of cases where predictions were fulfilled, they prove the reality of the art of divination, as Zeno claimed." Chrysippus is very definitive on this matter.

The Stoic doctrine regarding virtue is not mentioned in the preserved fragments of Zeno's works, but it seems he supported it.

Cleanthes of Assos, Zeno’s immediate successor, is known primarily for two reasons. First: as we have seen, he argued that Aristarchus of Samos should be held accountable for impiety because he made the Sun the center of the Universe instead of the Earth. The second reason is his "Hymn to Zeus," much of which could easily have been written by a pope or any educated Christian in the century following Newton. Cleanthes' brief prayer is even more imbued with the spirit of Christianity:

Lead me, O Zeus, and you, Fate, lead me!
Lead me onward.
To whatever you decree for me,
Lead me onward.
Fearlessly I go—though I may lag behind,
Veiled in disbelief and fear—
I must still go.

Chrysippus (280—207 BCE), who lived after Cleanthes, was a very prolific author and is said to have written seven hundred books. He made Stoicism systematic and pedantic. He asserted that only Zeus, the Supreme Fire, is immortal; other gods, including the Sun and the Moon, are born and die. It is said that he believed God does not partake in causing evil, but it is unclear how he reconciled this with determinism. He interpreted evil everywhere, akin to Heraclitus, asserting that extremes contain one another and that good without evil is logically impossible: "Nothing could be more foolish than those who suppose that good could exist without the existence of evil. Since good and evil are antithetical, both must necessarily exist in opposition." For support of this doctrine, he turned not to Heraclitus but to Plato.

Chrysippus claimed that a good person is always happy, while a bad person is unhappy, and that the happiness of a good person is indistinguishable from the happiness of God. On the question of whether the soul lives after death, opinions diverge. Cleanthes stated that all souls would live until the next great fire of the Universe (when all is consumed by God); but Chrysippus claimed this applies only to the souls of the wise. He was less strictly ethical in his convictions than the later Stoics; he essentially made logic foundational. Conditional and disjunctive syllogisms, as well as the term "disjunctive," owe their origin to the Stoics, as do the study of grammar and the invention of "cases" in declension. Chrysippus or other Stoics inspired by his works developed a theory of knowledge, largely empirical and based on perception, though they allowed for some ideas and principles that were to be established by consensus gentium—a universal agreement. Yet Zeno, like the Roman Stoics, considered all pursuits of theory subordinate to ethics. He likened philosophy to a fruit orchard, where logic serves as the walls, physics as the trees, and ethics as the fruits; or to an egg, in which logic is the shell, physics the white, and ethics the yolk. It appeared that Chrysippus attributed greater independent value to theoretical pursuits. Perhaps his influence accounts for the fact that among the Stoics, there were many individuals who advanced mathematics and other sciences.

After Chrysippus, two remarkable individuals—Panaetius and Posidonius—effected significant transformations within Stoicism. Panaetius introduced substantial elements of Platonism and cast aside materialism. He was a friend of Scipio Aemilianus and influenced Cicero, through whom Stoicism primarily became known to the Romans. Posidonius, who studied under Cicero on Rhodes, had an even greater impact on him. Panaetius, who passed away around 110 BCE, was Posidonius's teacher.

Posidonius (circa 135—51 BCE), a Syrian Greek, was a child when the Seleucid Empire ceased to exist. It is perhaps the experiences of anarchy in Syria that compelled him to venture westward, first to Athens, where he absorbed Stoic philosophy, and then further into the western parts of the Roman Empire. "He witnessed the sunset over the Atlantic Ocean at the edge of the known world, and the shores of Africa opposite Spain—the land where trees teemed with monkeys and the villages of barbarous peoples lived deep in the country beyond Marseilles, where human heads hung like trophies on the doors of houses, were common sights." He was a prolific writer, addressing scientific subjects; indeed, one of the motivations for his travels was to study tides and currents, pursuits that could not be conducted in the Mediterranean. He excelled in astronomy; as noted in Chapter XXII, his calculation of the distance from Earth to the Sun was the best in the ancient world. He was also a renowned historian, continuing the work of Polybius. Yet, he was primarily recognized as an eclectic philosopher: he synthesized Stoicism with much of what Plato taught, whom the Academy seemed to have forgotten during its skeptical period.

This resemblance to Plato manifested in his teachings about the soul and the afterlife. Panaetius, like most Stoics, taught that the soul perishes with the body. In contrast, Posidonius argued that the soul continues to exist in the air, where it often remains unchanged until the next cosmic conflagration. There is no hell, but the wicked are less fortunate after death than the virtuous, as their sins render the vapors of their souls tainted and prevent them from ascending as high as the souls of the good. The most heinous sinners remain just above the earth and undergo reincarnation; the truly virtuous ascend to the stellar spheres and spend their time there, observing the celestial bodies as they move in their orbits. They may assist other souls; this, he believed, explained the validity of astrology. Biven suggests that by reviving this Orphic concept and incorporating Neopythagorean beliefs, Posidonius perhaps paved the way for Gnosticism. He rightly adds that it was not Christianity but Copernican theory that proved fatal to these philosophical systems. Cleanthes was correct in deeming Aristarchus of Samos a formidable foe.

From a historical perspective—though not necessarily from a philosophical one—the earlier Stoics pale in significance compared to three individuals closely linked with Rome: Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius—each representing a distinct social position: a prominent court official, a slave, and an emperor.

Seneca (circa 3 BCE to 65 CE) was a Spaniard whose father, a highly educated man, lived in Rome. Seneca embarked on a fairly successful political career until he was exiled to Corsica by Emperor Claudius in 41 CE for incurring the wrath of Empress Messalina. Claudius's second wife, Agrippina, recalled Seneca from exile in 48 CE and appointed him tutor to her eleven-year-old son. Seneca was less fortunate than Aristotle in his choice of pupil; that boy was Emperor Nero. Although Seneca, as a Stoic, publicly scorned wealth, he amassed a considerable fortune, said to amount to three hundred million sesterces (about twelve million dollars). Most of this wealth came from lending money to Britain. According to Dio, the exorbitant interest rates he charged contributed to the uprising in that region. The heroic queen Boudica, if truth be told, led a revolt against the capitalism represented by the philosophical apostle of asceticism.

Gradually, as Nero's behavior grew increasingly unrestrained, Seneca fell from favor. Ultimately, he was accused—whether justly or not—of conspiring to assassinate Nero and replace him with another emperor; some claimed it was to be Seneca himself. In light of his past merits, he was graciously permitted to end his life through suicide in 65 CE.

The manner of his death was instructive. At first, upon being informed of the emperor's decision, he set about drafting a will. When told that he had no time for such an extended task, he addressed his grieving family with these words: "It matters not, I shall leave you something of far greater value than earthly wealth—a life exemplifying virtue," or something to that effect. He then opened his veins and summoned his secretaries to record his final words; according to Tacitus, his eloquence did not cease until his last moment. His nephew, the poet Lucan, met a similar fate at the same time; he breathed his last while reciting his own verses. In the subsequent centuries, Seneca was judged more for his delightful teachings than for his somewhat dubious life practices. Some of the Church Fathers attempted to portray him as a Christian, and the supposed correspondence between him and St. Paul was accepted as authentic by figures such as St. Jerome.

Epictetus (born circa 60 CE, died circa 100 CE) was of an entirely different nature, although he bore a strong resemblance to Seneca as a philosopher. He was of Greek origin, a slave of Epaphroditus, a freedman of Nero, and subsequently his servant. Epictetus was said to have been lame as a result of severe punishment suffered during his enslavement. He lived and studied in Rome until 90 CE, when Emperor Domitian, who had no need for intellectuals, expelled all philosophers. Epictetus then withdrew to Nicopolis in Epirus, where he died after several years devoted to literary pursuits and teachings.

Marcus Aurelius (121—180 CE) occupied a position at the other end of the social spectrum. He was the adopted son of the benevolent Emperor Antoninus Pius, who was both his uncle and father-in-law; Marcus Aurelius succeeded him in 161 and honored his memory. As emperor, he dedicated himself to Stoic virtue. He needed great willpower, as his reign was fraught with calamities—earthquakes, epidemics, prolonged and arduous wars, military insurrections. His work, Meditations, directed towards himself and seemingly not intended for publication, reveals that he felt profound fatigue from his public duties and suffered from great exhaustion. His only son, Commodus, who inherited the throne, proved to be one of the worst among many poor emperors; however, while his father lived, he successfully concealed his vices. The emperor philosopher's wife, Faustina, was perhaps unjustly accused of vile debauchery, yet he never suspected her of such and, after her death, endeavored to deify her. Marcus Aurelius persecuted Christians because they rejected the state religion, which he regarded as politically essential. In all his actions, he was conscientious, yet in many instances, he was ill-fated. Marcus Aurelius is a tragic figure: in his list of earthly desires to resist, he found the desire to withdraw to a life of rural solitude the most alluring. Yet he was never afforded that opportunity. Some of his writings, which comprise Meditations, were penned in camp during distant military campaigns, the hardships of which ultimately led him to his grave.

It is notable that Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius converge entirely in their examination of all philosophical questions. This suggests that while social circumstances do reflect the philosophy of an era, personal circumstances exert less influence than is often assumed on an individual's philosophy. Philosophers are typically individuals of considerable breadth of mind, largely capable of disregarding the misfortunes of their personal lives; yet even they cannot rise above the good or evil of their time. In bleak times, they conceive of consolations; in favorable ones, their interests tend to be purely intellectual.

Gibbon, who begins his detailed history with the vices of Commodus, concurs with most writers of the eighteenth century in declaring that the period of the Antonines was a "golden age." "If anyone were to ask," wrote Gibbon, "during which period of universal history the condition of humankind was the happiest and most flourishing, he would have to name, without any hesitation, that period which stretched from the death of Domitian to the ascension of Commodus." One cannot fully agree with this judgment. The evil represented by slavery caused immense suffering and undermined the strength of the ancient world. The spectacles of gladiators and fights with wild beasts, unbearably cruel, must have degraded the dignity of the populace that reveled in these displays. It is true that Marcus Aurelius ordered that gladiators fight with dull swords, but this reform lasted only a short time; moreover, he did nothing regarding the fights with wild animals. The economic system was in dire straits; agriculture was declining in Italy, and the population of Rome relied on the free distribution of grain coming from the provinces. All initiative was concentrated in the hands of the emperor and his ministers; throughout the vast expanse of the empire, all, save for some rebellious general, could do little but submit. People yearned for the better days of the past; the future, they felt, at best promised only fatigue and, at worst, horror.

Comparing the tone in which Marcus Aurelius speaks to that of Bacon, Locke, or Condorcet, we perceive a stark contrast between a weary age and one filled with hope. In an age of hope, the great contemporary evils and misfortunes are bearable, for consciousness assures us that they shall pass; yet in an age of fatigue, even genuine goods lose their allure. The ethics of the Stoics were suited to the times of Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, as they called for patience rather than hope.

Undoubtedly, the era of the Antonines was far superior to any other period before the Renaissance in terms of general welfare. However, a careful examination reveals that it was not as prosperous as the ruins of architectural marvels might suggest. Greco-Roman civilization had very little impact on agricultural regions; it was largely confined to cities. Even in these cities, there existed a proletariat suffering extreme hardship, alongside vast numbers of slaves. Rostovtsev summarizes the discussion of the social and economic conditions of life in the cities:

"The picture of their social standing is less appealing than that of the external conditions. The impression conveyed to us by the existing sources is that the splendor of the cities was created by a very small minority of the population and for that minority itself, that the prosperity of even this small minority was based on a relatively weak foundation; that the large masses of the urban population either had very modest incomes or lived in extreme poverty; in short, we must not exaggerate the wealth of the cities: their appearance is deceptive."

On Earth, Epictetus asserts, we are prisoners, and our bodies are dust. According to Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus would say: "You are a small soul, bearing a body." Zeus could not liberate the body, but he bestowed upon us a spark of his divinity. God is the father of mankind, and we are all brothers. We ought not to declare, "I am an Athenian" or "I am a Roman," but rather, "I am a citizen of the universe." If you were a relative of Caesar, you would feel secure; how much more should you feel secure as a relative of God? If we conclude that virtue is the only true good, we will see that no actual evil befalls us.

I must die. But must I die lamenting? I must be imprisoned. But should I grieve over this? I must face exile. Can anyone prevent me from going forth with a smile, filled with courage and serenity? "Reveal the secret." - "I refuse to do so, for it lies within my power." - "But I will shackle you!" - "What do you say to me, man? Shackling me? You may shackle my legs—yes—but my will, no. Even Zeus cannot conquer it." - "I will imprison you." - "You refer to my body." - "I will behead you." - "And so what? Did I ever tell you that I am the only person in the world who cannot be beheaded?"

Such are the thoughts of those who follow philosophy. Such are the lessons they must record day by day, in which they must exercise themselves.

Slaves are equal to other men, for all are equally children of God. We must submit to God as good citizens— to the law.

"A soldier takes an oath to honor Caesar above all men, and we—above all—must honor ourselves." "When you stand before the face of the powerful of this world, remember that another looks down upon what transpires, and that you must please him rather than that man."

"Show me a person created according to the measure of the judgments he pronounces, just as we refer to the statue of Phidias, which is carved according to the rules of Phidias’s art. Show me a person stricken with disease—and yet happy, in danger—and yet happy, dying—and yet happy, in exile—and happy, in disgrace—and happy. Show me him. I swear by the gods, I shall see a Stoic. No, you cannot show me a perfected Stoic; but then show me one who is in formation, one who has embarked on this path. Grant me this kindness, do not deprive me, old man, of the spectacle that I have yet to behold. What! Do you think you will show me the Zeus of Phidias or his Athena—these statues of ivory and gold? I wish to see the soul; let any one of you show me the soul of a person yearning to be one with God, longing not to accuse either God or man, never suffering failure, not experiencing misfortune, free from anger, envy, and jealousy—one who (why hide my thought?) desires to transform his humanity into divinity and who has set his goal, in this wretched body, to reunite with God. Show him to me! No, you cannot."

Epictetus tirelessly instructs how one should regard what is deemed misfortune, often employing simple dialogues to do so. Like Christians, he asserts that we must love our enemies. In general, like other Stoics, he scorns pleasure, yet there exists a kind of bliss that cannot be despised. "Athens is beautiful. Yes. But happiness is far more beautiful when it entails freedom from passions and anxieties, the feeling that your actions depend on no one else." Every person is an actor in a play for which God has assigned the roles; our duty is to perform our part with dignity, whatever it may be.

The records conveying Epictetus's teachings possess a great sincerity and simplicity (they were composed from notes taken by his student, Arrian). His morality is lofty and transcends worldly concerns; in such a state, where the highest duty of man is to resist titanic power, it would be hard to find anything more capable of assisting this endeavor. In some respects, such as the recognition of human brotherhood and the doctrine of the equality of slaves, it surpasses all that can be found in Plato or Aristotle, or any other philosopher whose ideas are inspired by the city-state. The real world during Epictetus's time was far inferior to the Athens of Pericles; yet the existing evil provided ample scope for his inspiration, and his ideal world surpasses that of Plato just as his actual world is inferior to that of fifth-century Athens.

Marcus Aurelius's "Meditations" commence with an acknowledgment of those to whom he owes gratitude: his grandfather, father, adoptive father, various teachers, and the gods. Some of the acknowledgments he expresses are amusing. He learned (by his own account) from Diogenes not to listen to charlatans; from Rusticus—not to compose poetry; from Sextus—to conduct himself seriously, without affectation; from Alexander the Grammarian—not to correct others’ grammatical mistakes, but to use the correct expression immediately; from Alexander the Platonist—not to excuse tardiness in responding to letters due to busyness; from his adoptive father—not to fall in love with boys. He owes the gods (he continues) for not being reared too long with his grandfather's concubine and for not proving his manhood too early; that his children are neither foolish nor physically ugly; that his wife is obedient, gentle, and simple; and that, while engaging in philosophy, he has not wasted time studying history, syllogisms, or astronomy.

What is devoid of the personal in the "Meditations" closely aligns with Epictetus. Marcus Aurelius doubts the immortality of the soul, yet speaks as a Christian might: "If it is possible that you may part from life this very moment, accordingly, arrange every action and thought." Life in harmony with the universe—that is the good; and harmony with the universe is the same as obedience to the will of God.

World! Everything that harmonizes with you befits me, and nothing that is timely for you comes too early or too late for me. Nature! Everything ripening in the change of your seasons serves my needs. All things emanate from you, all things abide in you, and all things return to you. The hero of the play proclaims: “Oh beloved city of Kekrops!” Will you not say: “Oh beloved city of Zeus!”?

From this, it is evident that the City of God, as described by St. Augustine, is partially borrowed from the pagan emperor.

Marcus Aurelius believes that God assigns each person a special good genius as a guide— a faith that is reborn in the image of the Christian guardian angel. He finds solace in the idea of the Universe as a tightly knit whole; he states that it is a singular, living being possessing a unified substance and a singular soul. One of his aphorisms reads: “Reflect more often on the connection of all things in the world and on their interrelations.” “Whatever happens to you was preordained from eternity. The interweaving of causes has from the very beginning tied your existence to this given event.” In this, he reconciles, no matter how contradictory it may be to his position in the Roman state, a Stoic belief in humanity as a single community: “For me, a man of the Antonine line, the city and homeland is Rome, but for a mere man— the world.” Here lies the difficulty we find in all Stoics, grappling with the attempt to reconcile determinism with free will. “Humans exist for one another,” he says, when reflecting on his duty as a ruler. “The vice of one person does not harm another,” he asserts in the same passage while contemplating the doctrine that only virtue is good. He never concludes that the virtue of one person cannot benefit another and that he himself would not cause harm to anyone but himself, were he as poor an emperor as Nero; yet this conclusion seems almost inevitable.

“It is human nature,” he states, “to love even those who err. You will achieve this if you come to the realization that they are akin to you, that they sin out of ignorance and against their will, that soon enough, both you and they will meet death, and that none of them—this is the main point—has caused you harm, for they have not made your guiding principle any worse than it was before.”

And again: “Love humanity. Follow God... And this is enough to remember that the Law governs all.”

These assertions clearly express the innate contradictions of Stoic ethics and theology. On one hand, the Universe is a rigidly determined whole, in which everything that occurs is the result of preceding causes. On the other hand, individual will is entirely autonomous, and no one can be compelled to sin by external causes. This is one contradiction. There is another, closely related to it. Since will is autonomous, and only virtuous will is good, one person cannot cause either good or evil to another; hence, benevolence becomes an illusion. Something must be said about each of these contradictions.

The contradiction between free will and determinism is one of those that traverse philosophy from ancient times to the present, taking on different forms at different times. Now, we are speaking of the form this contradiction takes in Stoicism.

I believe that a Stoic, if we could engage him in a dialogue using the Socratic method, would defend his views roughly as follows: The Universe is a single animated Being, possessing a soul and capable of being called God or Reason. As a whole, this Being is free. God decided from the very beginning that He would act according to established universal laws, but He chose such laws that could yield the best outcomes. Sometimes, in individual cases, the results are not entirely desirable, but this inconvenience is worth enduring, just as in human codes of law, in the name of upholding legality. The human being is partly fire and partly base body; and since it is fire (at least when this fire is of the highest quality), it is a particle of God. When the divine part of a person manifests a virtuous will, this will is a fragment of God’s will, which is free; therefore, under these circumstances, human will is also free.

This is a good answer, to some extent, but it collapses when we consider the causes of our volitional acts. We all know from practical experience that, for instance, dyspepsia has a deleterious effect on a person’s virtue, and that forcibly administered appropriate remedies can undermine willpower. Take Epictetus’s favorite example: a person unjustly imprisoned by a tyrant (there have been more such instances in recent years than at any other time in human history). Some of these individuals have endured with Stoic heroism; others, for reasons unknown, have not. It has become evident not only that sufficiently agonizing torture will break the will of almost any person but also that morphine or cocaine can lead a person to submission. Will is indeed independent of the tyrant only as long as the tyrant acts irrationally. This is an extreme example; but the same arguments that support determinism in the inanimate world apply equally in the realm of human volition. I do not say and do not believe that these arguments are decisive; I will merely state that they possess equal weight in both cases and that there can be no sufficient grounds for accepting them in one domain and rejecting them in another. A Stoic, when he insists on a tolerant attitude toward sinners, will also insist that sinful will is the result of previous causes; only virtuous will seems free to him. However, this is inconsistent. Marcus Aurelius believes that he owes his own virtue to the good influence of his parents, grandparents, and teachers; a good will is as much the result of preceding causes as is a bad one. A Stoic may sincerely claim that his philosophy is a matter of virtue for those who embrace it, but it seems that it will not produce this desirable effect unless there is a certain element of intellectual delusion present. Understanding that both virtue and sin are equally inevitable results of preceding causes (as Stoics ought to assert) would likely have a somewhat paralyzing effect on moral efforts.

I now turn to the second contradiction. The Stoic, when he preaches benevolence, asserts, in theory, that no one can cause either evil or good to another, since only virtuous will is good and is independent of external causes. This contradiction is more evident than the first and is more specific to Stoics (including some Christian moralists). An explanation of why they did not notice this is as follows: they, like many others, had two ethical systems— one refined for themselves and another subordinate for the “less educated and lawless.” When the Stoic philosopher thinks of himself, he is certain that happiness and all other worldly so-called goods are worthless; he even asserts that desiring happiness is contrary to nature, implying that it leads to disobedience to the will of God. But as a practical man governing the Roman Empire, Marcus Aurelius knows very well that such things do not happen. His duty is to ensure that ships carrying grain from Africa safely reach Rome, to take measures to alleviate the suffering caused by epidemics, and to prevent barbarian enemies from crossing the borders. In other words, when dealing with those subjects whom he did not regard as Stoic philosophers—actual or potential— he adopts the ordinary, worldly standards of what is good or bad. It is precisely by accepting these standards that he fulfills his duties as an administrator. And, strangely, this function itself lies in a higher realm than what the Stoic sage ought to do, even though it is derived from the ethics that the Stoic sage regards as fundamentally flawed.

The only answer that resolves this difficulty, which I can imagine, may be logically invulnerable but is highly improbable. I think it would be provided by Kant, whose ethical system closely resembles the Stoic. Indeed, Kant might say: there is nothing good except a good will, but will is good when directed toward certain ends that are indifferent in themselves. It does not matter whether Mr. A is happy or unhappy, but I, if I am virtuous, will act in such a way as to lead him, in my view, to his happiness, because that is what the moral law prescribes. I cannot make A virtuous, for his virtue depends solely on himself, but I can do something to make him happy, or wealthy, or learned, or healthy. The ethics of the Stoics may perhaps be reduced to the following: some things are regarded as goods in the ordinary sense, but this is an error; what is truly good is the will directed toward achieving these false goods for others. This doctrine contains no logical contradictions, but it loses all plausibility if we genuinely believe that what is considered good in the ordinary sense has no value, for in that case, virtuous will could be directed toward entirely different ends with equal success.

There is indeed an element of “sour grapes” in Stoicism. We cannot be happy, but we can be good; let us then imagine that, as long as we are kind, it does not matter that we are unhappy. This doctrine is heroic and, in a flawed world, useful, but it is not entirely true and, in its primary sense, not entirely sincere.

Although ethics was paramount and of great importance to the Stoics, their teachings bore fruit in other areas as well. One of these was the theory of knowledge, another the doctrine of natural law and natural rights.

In their theory of knowledge, contrary to Plato, they acknowledged sensation; the fallibility of sense perception, they argued, is in fact a false judgment and can be avoided with a modicum of effort. The Stoic philosopher Sphaerus, a close disciple of Zeno, was once invited to dinner by King Ptolemy, who, having heard of this doctrine, presented him with a pomegranate made of wax. The philosopher attempted to eat it. At this, the king laughed at him. The philosopher replied that he felt no confidence that it was a real pomegranate, but did not consider it likely that anything in the king’s presence would be inedible. In this response, he appealed to the accepted Stoic distinction between things that can be known with certainty based on sensation and those that are only possible on that basis. Overall, this was a doctrine that was sound and scientific.

Another of their doctrines in the theory of knowledge was more influential, though also more dubious. This was the belief in innate ideas and principles. Greek logic was entirely deductive, which raised the question of initial premises. The premises had to be at least partially shared, and there was no way to prove them. The Stoics believed that there are certain principles that are absolutely evident and recognized by all; these could serve, as in Euclid's "Elements," as the foundation for deduction. Innate ideas, in a similar manner, could be used as a starting point for definitions. This viewpoint was adopted throughout the Middle Ages and was even shared by Descartes.

The doctrine of natural law, as it manifested in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, is a revival of Stoic doctrine, albeit with significant modifications. It was the Stoics who distinguished between jus naturale and jus gentium. Natural law flowed from the fundamental principles employed to justify any common knowledge. The Stoics taught that by nature, all human beings are equal. Marcus Aurelius, in his "Meditations," praises “a polity in which there is the same law for all—a polity governed with regard to equal rights and equal freedom of speech—and a royal rule that respects most of all the freedom of the governed.” This was an ideal that could not be realized accordingly in the Roman Empire, but it influenced legislation, particularly in terms of improving the status of women and slaves. Christianity inherited this aspect of Stoic teaching along with much else. And when, at last, in the seventeenth century, the time came to effectively combat despotism, the Stoic doctrine of natural law and natural equality, in its Christian garb, acquired a practical force that even the emperor could not confer upon it in antiquity.